


Red and White Knights

by djjblack



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-12 01:54:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djjblack/pseuds/djjblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once a cop, always a cop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Red and White Knights  

**The** **Torino**  

{Engine idling} 

“So, Huggy’s?” 

“I dunno, Starsk.  It’s been a long day, it’s late, and I’m tired.” 

“Yeah, but I think I can hear a beer calling me.” 

“Calling you what?  ‘Moron’?” 

“Oh, so funny I forgot to laugh.  C’mon, Blintz, one beer won’t–“ 

{Radio} “ _All units in the vicinity_ _East Florence_ _and Centinela: 417, shots fired, handle code 3.”_  

“That’s by the park.  We’re kinda close.” 

“Kind of.” 

{Radio} _“Central, this is Baker 6, responding.”_  

“That’s Bernie Glassman.  Think he needs back-up?” 

{Radio} _“Baker 3, responding.”_  

“He’s got back-up.  Bernie’s a good man.  He can take care of himself.” 

“Yeah, but he’s riding with a rookie, Spring. . .Springer. . .” 

“Springman.” 

“Yeah, Joey.  Kid’s probably never had the business end of a gun in his face before.” 

“Probably not.” 

“Bet we’re closer than they are.” 

“Sucker bet.” 

“We owe Bernie, Hutch.” 

“Central, Zebra 3, responding.”

 

**The Pits**  

{Ringing phone} 

“You’ve reached the Pits; the Bear is at your service.” 

“Huggy, it’s Joe Collandra.” 

“Joe, m’man!  How the hell are you?  Kind of a late night for you, ain’t it?  Come on down, and the beer’s on the house!” 

“Thanks, not tonight.  Are Starsky and Hutch there?” 

“Haven’t seen ‘em.  What time is it?  Their shift ended a little bit ago.  They’re not here; they must be on their way home.  Why?” 

“Dammit!  _Dammit_!  This is important, Huggy: get ahold of them and tell them not to go to the park!  You got it?!  They’ve got to stay away from the park!!” 

 

**The Park**  

{Fading siren} 

“Okay, that’s the intersection up ahead.” 

{Sirens in the distance, growing louder} 

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Starsk.  You see anybody?” 

“No.  Who called this in?  How the hell are we supposed to know where to look?” 

“What the --?  Starsky, to the right!  Gun!!” 

“Christ --!” {Engine gunning} “Hutch, get down!!” 

{Automatic gunfire}  
{Crash}

 

{Squealing tires, fading sirens} 

“Holy shit, Bernie, that’s Starsky’s Torino!  Holy shit!” 

“Joey!  Dammit, Joey, we’re open!  Get your ass back in the squad!  Joey!!!  Walt, cover us somehow!” {Footsteps running on grass} “Goddamn stupid idiot rookie!  Joey, wait!” 

{Retching} “Jesus God, Bernie! {heave} So much blood! {sob} Oh, Jesus!” 

{Radio} _“Zebra 3, I have a patch-through from Mr. Bear.”_  

“Take it easy, kid!  How bad. . . ?  Oh, Damn! {groan} Walt!  Officers down!  Call it in, Walt, officers… {choke} Son of a bitch!  Starsky and Hutch are down!!” 

{Radio} _“Zebra 3, I have a patch-through from Mr. Bear.”_  

{Whisper} “Bernie . . .help . . .Starsky. . .” 

“God in heaven, they’re still alive!  Get an ambulance!  Walt, they’re still alive; get a goddamn ambulance!  Get Dobey!  Fucking get **_somebody_**!!” 

{Radio} _“Zebra 3? . . .Starsky? . . .Hutch?”_  

 ~~~~~~~

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Dobey **

I figured it out when I was a kid: nobody just “goes” to the hospital.

My great-uncle Lucius worked in the rail yard. One night in the summer of 1938, my mother came into the kitchen and said, “We have to go to the hospital.” I’d hardly ever heard anyone mention the hospital, and I had no idea what we would do there, but I hoped it might be fun, like when she would say, “We have to go to the store”, or “Let’s go to the movies”. Except I could see she’d been crying. What we did at the hospital was sit in really uncomfortable chairs on and off for a few days until great-uncle Lucius finally died. During that time, I saw a lot of people come and go, but none of them were having fun. They were mostly crying and/or praying, just like my relatives. Just like me. That’s when I figured it out: the main reason you go to a hospital is because you or someone you know is sick, injured, dying, or . . . dead.

Since then, I’ve always disliked hospitals. Right now, I hate this one.

It feels like I’ve spent more than my share of time here at Memorial during my years on the force. Of course, I know it’s not just me. Cops can spend a lot of time here for any number of reasons. Sometimes there are victims’ statements to take; sometimes there are prisoners or witnesses to be protected; sometimes there are fellow cops . . .

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here. Feels like days. They call this the waiting room for a reason. We’re all waiting for something: information, confirmation, hope, pain. I must look bad, because a woman who’s been sitting on the other side of the room comes over and asks me if I’m all right. Jesus, what a stupid question. Is anyone in this room “all right”? I don’t think it’s any of her business, but I manage to be polite and tell her I’m fine. She smiles sadly and pats my hand and goes back to her seat. Thank God.

I look around the waiting room and see that more beat cops have showed up. Bernie Glassman’s eyes are red and wet, and the face of his rookie partner, Joey Spring-something, is some sick shade of pale green. They look at me, but they don’t say anything. That’s good, because I don’t want to talk. Not now. Not yet.

The door opens, and Huggy Bear walks in. He drops into the empty chair next to me but doesn’t say anything. I don’t look at him, and I can feel him staring at me with those liquid eyes of his.

“Captain?”

I don’t answer. I don’t want to talk.

“Captain, are they here yet?”

Not even to Huggy.

“Harold?”

That does it. I feel tears sliding down my cheeks and spilling onto my suit coat, and I’m really angry at him for making me cry.

I manage to keen my voice even. “No, the ambulances are still a few minutes out. The nurse told me to wait here.” Of course she did, it’s the waiting room. This is where I’ve spent what now seems like an eternity waiting, tonight and over the years. Why don’t they just put my name on this fucking chair? I _really_ don’t want to talk.

“Thanks for calling me.”

Why won’t he just shut up? Suddenly it’s all too much, and I’m furious, and I can’t hide it. “Why do those two always have to go around like Batman and Robin, trying to save the world? Why didn’t they go to The Pits? _Why didn’t they just go home?!_ ”

Huggy’s voice cracks. “I tried to stop them, Captain; I really did, but. . .”

“What?” Now I look at him and see the anguish in his eyes. Oh, my God.

“Joe Collandra called The Pits looking for them to warn them. I tried . . .” He shakes his head, and now he’s crying.

 I put a hand on his arm, and for a while we just sit in silence amid the ever-growing sea of blue uniforms. Maybe it’s time to retire. I don’t think I can do this anymore.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confusing much? This was formerly Chapter 2, but I decided to include a chapter I was originally going to leave out. Thus, this is now Chapter 3. Sorry for the confusion. Feedback is always appreciated.

**Hutch **

It looks black as pitch beyond the street lights.  I don’t see the guy right away, but Starsky does. 

“That’s him, Hutch.  That’s the turkey that ambushed us.” 

I sit forward in my seat and try to see what he sees. “Where?” 

He points off to the left and steers the Torino in that direction. “Just up there, see?  He’s headed for the trees. And he’s got a rifle.” 

“Are you sure it’s him?” 

“You kidding?  I’d know that son of a bitch if he was dressed in a bath robe and bunny slippers!” 

I see the guy now, in the headlights, but he’s only a few yards from the woods.  I’m afraid we’ll lose him if he gets there. We need to catch him.  My hand instinctively presses to my chest as remembered pain suddenly burns through me.  We need to make him pay.  “Punch it, Starsk.” My voice is hoarse. “Don’t let him get away.” 

He looks at me, and even in the dark, I can see the determination, the reassurance, in his eyes.  “You know I ain’t gonna let that happen.”  

Of course I know.  I mentally kick myself for even seeming to suggest otherwise.  Who do I trust?  “Me and thee, partner.”  I clear my throat.  “Let’s nail this mother.” 

Starsky drives the Torino up over the curb and across the grass, cutting the guy off before he can make it to the tree line.  He skids to a stop and tries to change course, but I’m out of the car before it stops rolling, tackling him hard, hoping that at least one side of this face finds a patch of gravel.  I unholster my gun as Starsky vaults over the hood of the Torino and reaches for the rifle.  But the guy is still holding onto it, and he suddenly flips onto his back and tries to swing it up to take a shot at Starsky.  At least until he feels the muzzle of my Python against his temple. 

“Try it, fucker,” I say very calmly, knowing that I want him to. “Make this easy for me.”  Oh, how I want him to.  “Please.”  But the rifle falls onto the grass, and I grab it and push it out of his reach. “How in the hell did this shit-for-brains get his hands on an M16?!” 

 I expect my insult to make the guy at least red-in-the-face angry, but instead he’s gone pale.  He’s looking at the car, then he looks back at us, and his eyes are wide and he’s staring at us like there’s something really scary standing behind us. 

Starksy and I look at each other.  

“Is my fly unzipped?”  Starsky asks, eyebrows raised 

I roll my eyes. “No, I think he’s figured out who we are.”  

Our captive tries to push himself backward away from us, but Starsky stops him with a firmly planted foot on the chest.  “Is that it, jag-off?  Recognize us?” 

“You can’t be here!” the guy finally gasps, barely able to talk. “ It’s impossible!  I don’t believe it!” 

Starsky rolls him over onto his stomach and ‘cuffs him.  “And yet here we are, Ripley, believe it or not.”  He stands, but makes no effort to get the guy on his feet. 

“But, you’re dead!  I . . .I. . . “ 

“You what?  Filled us full of holes?”  Starsky draws his gun as I holster mine and drop to one knee, dragging the guy up by his shirt front so that we can get a good look at each other.  “I know you.  Richardson’s snitch.  Dugenski.”  He smells like beer and booze and cigarettes.  I let go of his shirt, and he smacks the back of his head when he falls back.  “Been drinking a little too much, have you, Carl?  Guess you’re kind of scared sober now, huh?” 

Starsky’s eyes narrow.  “We got nothing on you.  Why’d you do it?  Did somebody pay you to hit us?”

“No. . .nobody!   Honest!  I just wanted to kill cops, that’s all!”  He realizes what he’s said and cowers back against the grass. 

“‘That’s all’?” I mimic, shaking my head in disbelief.  “You just wanted to kill cops.  What’s the matter, Carl, got a beef with law enforcement?  Richardson not treating you right?” 

“So, just shoot whoever gets there first, right?”  Starsky’s voice has gone dangerous.  “Motherfucker . . .!” He starts forward, his thumb pulling back the Luger’s hammer.  

Dugenski brings an arm up over his face.  As if that could protect him from my partner. 

I don’t have to say anything; I just reach up and put a hand on Starksy’s arm. 

He doesn’t look at me, but he stops, takes a breath, and eases the hammer back down.  He settles for a kick to the guy’s leg.  “That was your big plan, genius?  Take out the first car on the scene, then split?” 

“I thought I heard you two were. . .” 

“Nobody gives a shit about what you ‘heard’.  I’m calling for back-up, Hutch.”  Starsky walks quickly to the Torino and grabs the mic through the open passenger door.  “Central, this is Zebra 3 . . .” 

I draw my gun with my right hand and put my left hand on Dugenski’s shoulder and smile at him benignly.  “And you, Carl, you’re going to sit right here.  And when the other nice officers get here, you’re going to tell them exactly what you just told us, got it?” 

He stares at me like he’s actually going to think about it; like he’s actually got a choice. 

I move my hand from his shoulder to his neck, and I squeeze as hard as I can as I bring the Python up and point its barrel at his heart. “Got it, scum?” 

He manages to nod a little despite my grip on his neck.  I smile again, release his neck and pat his shoulder. “Good boy.”  I look around.  “Kind of ironic, isn’t it, Carl, us busting you not far from where you ambushed us?” 

He babbles something unintelligible, and I sigh and shake my head.  “That was rhetorical, idiot.”

 I hear Starsky come up behind me as sirens wail to life not too far in the distance.   “Told you he wouldn’t get away,” he says quietly. 

I smile at him.  “Me and thee, partner.”  I stand and look for flashing red lights and headlights. “Think I’ll walk this piece of shit down to the curb while you move the Tomato.” 

He retrieves the M16 and hands it to me, then pulls Dugenski up by the arm and shoves him forward.  “Enjoy your last few minutes of fresh air, asshole.” 

I inhale deeply.  “It is kind of a nice night for the park, isn’t it?” 

He snorts and rolls his eyes.  “Yeah, t’rrific.” 

~~~~~~~~

 


	4. Chapter 4

Dylan

I’m lost. It’s starting to get dark, and I’m totally, completely, absolutely, can’t-find-my-way-back, L.O.S.T. I don’t know how the hell I got to wherever it is I am right now, and I have no idea how to get back to my hotel. One thing I know for sure, this has got to be the worst part of Bay City. They must use this neighborhood to film those horror movies, the ones where the psycho killer/alien pervert/zombie is stalking hookers and winos. I’m gonna die here, I know it, on my first day in town. Instead of starting my new job on Monday, I’ll be in the headlines as “Stupid First Day Bank Teller Slaughtered by PK/AP/Z on Popular Bay City Movie Location.” In caps. Yeah, read all about it.

I don’t have change for a pay phone, and I refuse to go into any of these peep shows or strip joints to try and get change. Before I left home, esteemed grandmother Xiao-Xing told me that just walking into a “den of iniquity” will make me go blind. Or maybe it was my dick will fall off; I don’t know for sure, since I really don’t speak the language. Even if it’s not true, I’m not taking any chance. The curse she lays on me for disobedience will be a whole lot worse than losing my dick. I love her to pieces, but she scares me more than the weirdos around here.

Except maybe the big, ugly guy and tall, skinny guy I see every time I turn around. I think maybe they’re following me, but I’m hoping it’s just coincidence. Right. Snowball’s chance in hell. I’ve got to get out of here.

I hail another cab, but the driver doesn’t stop, just like all the others. Guess they know about this neighborhood. Guess they think I might be a psycho killer/alien pervert/zombie. Well, what are they doing here, if they won’t stop for a fare? Hey, go spend your money at the mall, perverts!

There, I see them again, Big Ugly Guy and Tall Skinny Guy, reflected in the store-front windows next to me. This can’t be coincidence, anymore. What do I do? Do I run? Run where? Jesus Christ Almighty, I haven’t seen a single cop this whole time! Where the hell are they? There’s got to be a doughnut shop around here somewhere!

Big Ugly and Tall Skinny are getting closer. I pick up my pace, and they do, too, so now I’m sure they’re following me. There’s an alley up ahead on the left. They won’t be expecting me to make a break for it, so maybe I can run through there and lose them on the next street. I can hear them not far behind me, but I’m in the alley, now, and . . . son of a bitch!! I can’t fucking believe my eyes! It’s a dead end! What goddamned moron put a goddamned fence in this goddamned alley!?

Okay, okay, okay, maybe if I make myself really small and wedge myself into the corner behind these bags of garbage, they won’t see me. Yeah, yeah, yeah, shrink down here. Shit, shit, shit, they do see me! Of course they do, idiot, what kind of cover is garbage? Good thing I left most of my money in the hotel safe. Yeah, you won’t even get fifty bucks off this corpse! Take that, motherfuckers!

“Well, what have we got here?” Big Ugly says as he kneels down in front of me. He’s not just Big, he’s Really Big.

He leans in close, and even in the fading light, I get a good look at his face. He’s got a filthy mess of dark hair, a scraggly beard growing between the scars on his cheeks and chin, and his left eyelid is scarred and half-shut, like it won’t open any farther. There’s no neck under his black-that-used-to-be-white tee shirt, and he smells like he shit his pants. I gag and shove my face into a bag of garbage so I can breathe.

He pulls my head up by my hair and smiles. His breath takes mine away, and I have to look away from his what-appears-to-be-green-slime covered teeth, or rather what’s left of them.

“Looks like we get Chinese tonight, after all, Sid.”

They’re going to eat me?! I feel my lungs trying to crawl out of my chest through my throat. Holy Christ! They’re cannibals!! I piss myself.

Tall Skinny Sid is popping his knuckles over and over, and for about the millionth time, he glances toward the mouth of the alley. “I don’t know, Jiggy,” he says in a thin, whiny voice. His long, straggly hair is hanging in his face, but I can still see the snot running from his hawk-nose. “We ain’t never done nothing like this before.”

Really Big Ugly Jiggy scowls at his partner. “So you wanna keep eating rotten egg foo young outta dumpsters, is that it? I bet this guy’s got enough scratch on him, we can prob’ly eat good for a week. Besides, nobody’s gonna miss him for awhile. Garbage pickup ain’t ‘til Friday; by then, we’ll be long gone.”

He shoves his face into mine and smiles again. It isn’t just his breath that chokes me this time; it’s the fact that his low, raspy voice almost sounds kind of excited. I know I’m going to die now. Please let honored Grandmother be wrong about the ten courts of hell!

He laughs as he sticks the biggest knife ever made in my face. His grin turns into a sneer, and he hisses at me like the snake that he is. “Hope before you left home, you told your momma you love her.”

“My Grandmother!” I more or less shriek at him, finally growing a pair. At least I won’t go out like a total pussy. “She’s my esteemed Grandmother, dipshit!”

His eyes narrow down to slits, and he almost begins to foam at the mouth like a rabid dog. I know he’s going to gut me like a fish, and I sure as hell don't want to watch, but, God help me, I can’t seem to close my eyes.

I hear the siren an instant before I see the headlights and flashing red light in the mouth of the alley. It looks like a scene from that movie last week on HBO: Really Big drops the knife, jumps up, and makes his getaway, steamrolling a guy trying to get out of the passenger side by shoving the open door into him and pushing him back into the car. Tall Skinny makes a break for it around the driver’s side of the car, vaulting over the car door as it swings open. The driver jumps out and takes off running after them both like a bat out of hell. Yeah, it looks like a scene from a movie, but in real life, it totally sucks canal water.

The guy from the passenger side gets out of the car and comes up to me. These are cops, right, I mean, with the mars light and all? So why’s he wearing a generic varsity jacket?  
He hunches down in front of me, and I see that he’s holding a cannon disguised as a gun in his right hand. Oh, shit, maybe he’s a psycho killer/alien pervert/zombie pretending to be a cop!

“Hey, kid, you okay?” He sounds awful concerned, for a psycho killer. He leans forward, and the headlights behind him make his blond hair look kind of like a halo. “Are you hurt?”

I babble something that sounds like “Please don’t kill my grandmother”, and he pulls a wallet out of his pocket and flips it open. It’s a badge and an ID. I can feel hot tears begin to roll down my cheeks, and I’m sobbing, and I know he thinks I’m an idiot, but I’m so fucking relieved, I don’t care.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Hutchinson.” He smiles as he tucks the cannon into a shoulder holster under his jacket and helps me to my feet. He’s tall. Very tall. “A black and white will be here in a couple of minutes. You’re safe, now, so just take a deep breath, and relax. What’s your name?”

There must be a mouse around here somewhere, because I hear it squeak, “Dylan. Dylan Chan.” So much for growing a pair.

Very Tall Detective Sergeant Hutchinson takes my arm and leads me toward the car. I’m not big on automotive stuff, but it looks like something I saw at a car show once, except it’s red and has a big white stripe running across the roof and up to both headlights. The mars light is still flashing, and the driver’s door is open. I look around and think it’s kind of weird that a crowd hasn’t gathered to watch. Guess everyone around this neighborhood is cop-shy. Duh.

“Dylan.” He dips his head to look me in the face. “Look at me, Dylan. I need to know if you can identify the men who attacked you.”

By now, I’ve lost the urge to scream like a little girl, so I clear my throat, and my voice sounds normal. Wish it was a little deeper. “You mean like in a line-up, or something?”

“Yes, and in court, if it comes to that. You think you’ll be able to do that?” His gaze is really intense. I think his eyes are blue, and they’re kind of hypnotic. “Dylan?”

I nod finally. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll never forget their faces. Never.”

He grins big and puts a hand on my shoulder. “That’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

I have to grin, too, because suddenly I feel like I just saved the universe or something.

Behind the headlights, I suddenly see someone running into the alley. I jump, and my heart starts to pound, but Very Tall steadies me with that hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Dylan. That’s my partner, Detective Starsky.”

I can’t see Detective Starsky’s face very well, but I see the flashing red light reflecting off his curly, dark hair. He starts to climb into the car’s driver’s seat. “Come on, Hutch, I know where they went. Let’s get these turkeys!”

“Slow down, Starsk. Dylan, here, says he can identify them.”

Dark Curly Detective Starsky walks up to us and looks at me, all very intense and scary-like. “Yeah? You gonna do that, kid?”

I nod dumbly, and sort of whisper, “You bet.”

For a second, he looks like maybe he’s going to bite my head off; then he slaps me on the back and smiles, and his whole face kind of lights up. “T’rrific!”

Holy shit, I just saved the universe twice in one night!

I hear sirens now, close by. Dark Curly cocks his head toward the sound, then heads back to the red and white car. “Back-up’s on the way; let’s wrap this up. I think I hear a beer at Huggy’s calling me.”

Very Tall pats my shoulder. “Okay, Dylan. Just be sure to tell the other officers what you told me, okay?”

“I will. Absolutely, I will. ”

He waves as he gets into the car. “Calling you what? ‘Moron’?”

Is he talking to me?

The car backs out of the alley faster than I can follow it, and by the time I reach the sidewalk, it’s nowhere in sight. A black and white squad car, blue and red lights flashing and siren cut, pulls up to the curb next to me. A young cop gets out of the passenger side, moves around to the front of the squad and waits as the driver, an older, gray-haired cop, climbs out and stands in front of me.

He looks around, then at me. “We got a call about an assault at this location.” His left hand is on his hip; his right hand is on the butt of his gun. “You know anything about that, son?”

“Fuck, yeah!” I rethink that, since Older Gray-haired Cop has stripes on his sleeves, two up over a star, and no varsity jacket. “I mean, yes, sir. Two crazy guys tried to kill me. The other officers went after them.”

He’s watching me closely. “Did those officers give you their names?”

“Yeah, Detectives Hutchinson and Starsky.”

He nods and looks over his shoulder at his partner.  “Call in a confirmed Alpha, Danny.  Make sure it’s tach two, this time.”  

Officer Danny shakes his head as he gets back in the squad.  “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?” 

“Probably not.”  Older Gray-haired Cop looks back to me. “I need to see your ID, son.  What’s your name?”

“Dylan. Dylan Chan, sir. And I forgot my ID at the hotel. I wouldn’t have been in this mess, but I was in such a hurry, I left without all my stuff. Oh, and Detective Hutchinson wanted me to tell you that I can identify those fuckers, I mean, those guys.”

“Okay, then, Dylan, we’ll have to take you to the station.” He glances down at the front of my pants; then says, over his shoulder again, “Danny, cover the back seat.”

Embarrassed, I cough a little and stuff my hands in my pockets. I feel like I need to say something, anything. “Um, I’ll get to talk to them again, right?”

Older Gray-Haired Cop is watching Danny retrieve a tarp from the trunk. He doesn’t look at me, but I see his eyebrow raise. “Talk to who, exactly?”

“The detectives. Hutchinson and Starsky.”

He shakes his head. “I don't think so, Dylan.”

That’s not the answer I expect, and I do a double-take. “You mean I don’t get to thank them? But, they saved my life.”

He looks at me now, and stares at me for a long minute, almost like he’s looking for something. Finally, he nods. “But, I really can’t promise anything.”

I start to say something about bullshit, but I’m interrupted by a voice from the mic clipped to his shirt.

“Baker 6, possible Omega to your Red-and-White Alpha, Carlton and Third.”

He thumbs the mic switch. “Baker 6 responding. Be advised that we are transporting a witness.”

“10-4, Baker 6. Back-up is rolling.”

“Get in, Dylan,” he says as he pulls open the back door. “We’ve got to roll.”

Hot damn! I get to see those motherfuckers on ice! Maybe Very Tall and Dark Curly will be there, too! And maybe, if I suck up to him, Older Gray-haired Cop will stop at the hotel so I can change my pants and get my wallet and cell.

“Look, I want to thank you, too, Officer . . .” I try to see his name tag, but it’s too dark. “Officer . . .?”

“Springman.” He smiles a little as he puts his hand on my head and pushes me down and into the back seat. Force of habit, I guess. “Joe Springman.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~


	5. Chapter 5

Joe:

It’s only a few blocks to the Omega location, but by the time we get there, our back-up is already loading up two men in ‘cuffs. They’re real sad cases, too; one big guy and one skinny guy, street people from the looks of them. The skinny guy is crying and begging for protection, and the big guy is just breathing hard and nodding like crazy. I don’t have to ask Dylan if these are the ones that assaulted him, because he’s yelling, “Hell, yeah, that’s the fuckers!” from the back seat even before we roll to a stop. Danny and I get out to do our part, leaving the kid locked in the car. It’s usually best.

Now, after so many years, this is just routine stuff, but I remember the first Omega like it was yesterday.

It was the night of the shooting. A call came in while I was sprawled, sobbing, on the grass at the park; I could hear it on the Torino’s radio, but I couldn’t understand what was being said. Suddenly Bernie suddenly started yelling again and hauled me up and tossed me into the passenger side of the squad. Then he drove like a maniac for just a couple of blocks and bounced up over the curb, almost hitting a man hugging a lamp post. I was huddled down in the passenger seat, just barely over the dry heaves, but I have an image of the guy, handcuffed around the street light, babbling something I couldn’t make out, a gun lying on the sidewalk next to him. Later that night, I found out who he was and what he had done with that gun.

That’s when the Red-and-Whites started, and law enforcement in Bay City changed forever. Not that I’m complaining.

It isn’t long before we’re on our way to the station. In the rear-view mirror, I see Dylan staring at me, an embarrassed, questioning look on his face.

I figure it can’t hurt to let the kid think he’s sucked up to me, and I don’t see the need to humiliate him more than necessary, so we stop off at his hotel so he can change his wet pants. It doesn’t take him long, and we’re back on the road in a few minutes. Again, in the mirror, I can see him fidgeting.

“You okay, son?”

“Yeah, I mean, yes, sir. I’m just wondering, do you think Detectives Hutchinson and Starsky will be at the station?”

My gut tightens. “It’s not likely, Dylan. I told you I couldn’t promise anything.”

His reflection frowns. “Well, then, do you know how long this will take?”

“You in a hurry?”

“No, sir, I mean, yes, sir. I mean, they said they were going to ‘Huggy’s’ to get a beer. I just thought maybe I could meet them there. That is, if this doesn’t take too long and somebody tells me how to get to Huggy’s. Sir.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Danny glance at me.

“It’s been a long night, Dylan,” he says, trying to discourage the kid. “Sure you don’t want to pass on that?”

“Fuck, yeah! I mean, absolutely, sir. I’d be dead, if not for them. They were the shits! I mean, I just want to tell them how grateful I am. Sir.”

Danny can tell I’m hesitating, and he says, very quietly, “You don’t want to do this, Joe.”

I think for a long, hard minute. Over the years, there have been a few who’ve had the same idea, but, after it was all said and done, I can’t remember anyone who actually asked to follow through on it. Something tells me this kid is different, and I know he’s not going to drop it. I never should have let him get to me. Damn. I’ve cooked myself this time.

I sigh. “Okay, Dylan. If you still feel like that when you’re finished giving your statement, we’ll stop by Huggy’s on the way back to your hotel.”

He practically impales himself on the transport enclosure between his seat and ours. “Far fucking out! I mean, thank you, sir! Thank you so much! How long do you think this will take?”

I’m not smiling, but Danny is, a little. “This guy’s a piece of work!”

At the station, Dylan ID’s his assailants and gives his statement while Danny writes it up, but it’s pretty much just icing on the cake. The two perps, Jiggy and Sid, have fallen all over themselves in an effort to plead guilty because they’re afraid the “Psycho Cops” will come back for them if they don’t. Seems a little late for them to be using their heads, but better late than never, I guess.

We finish pretty quickly, and Dylan is almost dancing as we head for the squad. Danny puts a hand on my shoulder, and I just shake my head.  
  
The sign above the door still says “The Pits”, but nobody calls it that anymore; it’s just “Huggy’s”. I hear it’s a busy place, especially after a Red-and-White, like tonight. I think it’s kind of ironic that Huggy Bear’s bar has been a cop hang-out for the last thirty-two years, and I’ve often wondered why they started coming here. Was it love? Respect? Morbid curiosity? Was it an effort to see them one more time, or just an effort to find out if they _could_ be seen?

According to the people who allegedly _have_ seen them, they look good, just like they did back in the day, before the shooting. But if Huggy didn’t have a picture of them by their booth, I wouldn’t even remember their faces. I was a rookie back then and didn’t know them very well, plus the last time I saw them, they almost didn’t have faces.

I still relive it in my head. I can still see the Torino, the inside covered with liquid red, Starsky slumped over into Hutch’s lap, their right hands almost, but not quite, touching. I can still feel my stomach heaving my guts out as Bernie stampedes by me to get to the car, and the cool grass on my cheek as I collapse because there’s nothing left to puke up. I can still hear their labored breaths rattling in their chests, Bernie screaming that they’re down, then that they’re alive, the ambulance, the EMT’s. I still see and hear it all. God help me, I have seen and heard it all, every single night when I close my eyes, for the last thirty-two years.

Huggy always asks why I don’t stop in more often, especially since Danny’s a regular customer. I tell him it’s because of the wife, the kids, the grandkids, whatever. I can’t tell him the truth: that I don’t because I’ve also seen and heard it all every single time I’ve stepped into The Pits, for the last thirty-two years. And I know, God help me, it’s going to happen again tonight, sooner or later, once we’re there. But since I’ve brought this on myself this time, I just have to suck it up. I’m glad Danny’s with me; he’s always got my back.

We pull up in front of Huggy’s and take our time getting Dylan out of the squad. But it’s only so far from the curb to the front door, so it’s a little difficult to milk it.

We walk down the stairs, and the place is crowded with cops, some in uniform eating a sandwich and drinking coffee, some in civvies eating a sandwich and drinking something not coffee.

The tall, thin black man behind the bar nods. “Hey, Joe, Danny. Long time, no see.”

I try to keep my voice light. “Too long, I guess, Ted. How you doing?”

“I’m doing good.” He looks the kid up and down. “He the Red-and-White?”

I nod. “Yeah. Huggy around?”

He motions with his head toward the office door. “He should be out in a second.”

And it is just about a second before Huggy steps through the doorway. He looks a little different than the last time I saw him: still thin as a rail, but now his head’s shaved, and he’s sporting a gray Van Dyke. I have to admit, he’s looking pretty good for a guy his age.

He’s obviously surprised when he sees me. “Joey Springman, as I live and breathe!” He gives Danny an affectionate slap on the shoulder. “About damn time Sullivan got your ass down here! Where the hell you been for the last year or ten?!”

His smile is genuine, and his handshake is warm, not like I would have expected from someone I’ve basically ignored for a lifetime. “Well, you know, Hug, the family and stuff. How’s it going with you?”

“Not bad, not bad.” He gestures toward Ted. “My boy here, Teddy, has pretty much taken over the business for his old man. Does a bang-up job, too. Look at this place: full as usual. I just come down for awhile nights, in case . . . well, you know.”

“Yeah.” I nod again and gesture toward the kid. “Hug, this is Dylan Chan. He was the victim in the Red-and-White tonight. He, uh, he was hoping. . .” I can’t say their names. “. . . they’d be here.”

Huggy shakes his head as he shakes Dylan’s hand. “Hey, Dylan, I’m glad you came, but, sad to say, you’ve already missed Starsky and Hutch.”

The kid looks like somebody just kicked him in the gut. “What? Hell, no, I mean, are you sure? These two guys said they’d be here!”

I hold up a hand. “No, Dylan, _you’re_ the one who said they’d be here.”

Huggy frowns at me. “He doesn’t know?”

I shrug a little and glance from Huggy, to Dylan, to Danny, to the floor.

Protectively, Danny takes a step forward. “You know, Hug, we didn’t think Dylan would be so . . . persistent.”

Huggy sighs and nods. He thinks for a couple seconds; then puts an arm around the kid’s shoulders. “Well, Dylan, I tell you what: if you’ve got a few minutes, I’ve got a story to tell you, and I swear, it’s all true.

I watch them as they move away towards the empty booth in the back, and suddenly, with no warning, it’s that night thirty-two years ago. The room around me disappears, and the world is nothing but bullet holes and blood as my decades-old nightmare again plays itself out before my eyes. Bernie is yelling, and the grass is cool on my cheek, and Starsky and Hutch are bleeding out in the Torino.

“Joe?” I can hear the concern in Danny’s voice, even though he’s almost drowned out by Bernie screaming for an ambulance.

Dragging myself back to reality, I realize that I’m now leaning on the bar. My partner, even though he’s been here once or twice before, is staring at me, his face several shades whiter than usual, like _he’s_ the one seeing ghosts.

“You okay, Joe?” Ted’s voice sounds worried as he reaches across the bar to help steady me. “Can I get you something?”

I wipe the sweat from my forehead and force a smile. “Yeah, Ted, just some water. Please.”

“Sure, hang on a minute.”

Danny’s shaken. “I’m sorry, Joe; it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let you do this.”

“Forget about it. I’m good; we’ll be out of here in a few minutes, anyway.”

I thank Ted for the glass of water he hands me and chug it. It’s really cold going down, and my head starts to clear. Across the room, I see Huggy is watching me, even as he’s talking to Dylan. His eyes are sad, and ever so slightly, without interrupting his conversation, he nods at me. In that instant, I realize that he knows; he’s always known. Relief washes over me, and I nod, too, suddenly fighting back tears.

Lucky for me, my mic and a bunch of others in the bar start talking.

“ _All units in the vicinity, Parkway and Center: possible Red-and-White Alpha, handle code 3_.”

A few chairs scrape across the floor as on-duty cops start to respond.

I glance at Danny. “That’s right down the street; call us in.”

He shakes his head skeptically. “You sure you’re good for this?” Like he doesn’t know I can’t get out of here fast enough.

“Absolutely.” I turn to back to Ted, hoping my voice sounds apologetic. “We’ve got to roll.” I motion toward Dylan. “Can you get the kid back to his hotel for us? He’s at the Chapman.”

Ted nods. “No sweat, Joe. Pop and I will handle it.”

Danny thumbs his mic. “Baker six, show us responding.”

I nod my thanks to Ted and take one more look across the room. Huggy and Dylan are engrossed in their conversation now, and not paying us any mind. Danny and I almost run up the stairs, well behind a few other uniforms who have gotten to their squads before us. With Red-and-Whites, it sometimes feels like there’s a contest to see who’ll get to the scene first. But honestly, right now, I don’t care about the Alpha; I just want to get out of the bar.

The rush of cool air as we open the door feels good, and for a second I start to feel human again. Just for a second, though, because suddenly there’s the roar of a revving engine, and a car flies past us and instantly disappears down the dark street. But it’s not just any car, it’s a red Torino with a white stripe and a flashing mars light slapped on the roof. And just like that, it’s that night thirty-two years ago. . . .


	6. Chapter 6

Ted:

I watch Joe and Danny bolt from the bar, following the other cops responding to the Red-and-White. Pop told me once that he thinks Joe might have PTSD because of what he saw that night, and after what I saw first-hand this night, I have to agree. It’s a God-awful thing to have to carry something like that around for the rest of your life. Maybe if he was an asshat, I wouldn’t feel so bad about it, but he’s a great cop and a really good guy. It’s a shame.

I look around at the people left in the place. Pop is still over by the booth, talking to the kid, Dylan. They’re looking at the photos and the guns, and Dylan’s eyes are wide, and his mouth is hanging open. I have to smile. I know exactly what Pop is telling him; I’ve heard it a thousand times.

My bedtime stories were about Starsky and Hutch.

They’d been gone for a couple of years by the time I was born, but Mom says Pop was telling me about them on the ride home from the hospital. He always smiles when he denies it.

I actually think I remember a little from when I was just a toddler about Pop putting me to bed with stories about his “adventures” with two cops and a magical red and white car. Then, as I got older, the stories became more reality-based and more detailed, and at about twelve or thirteen, I realized that they weren’t just stories: my Pop had been friends with the most successful Bay City detectives that ever were. I also realized that they weren’t just adventures, but often life-threatening police investigations that actually put my old man’s life in danger. When I asked him why he would let them involve him in that stuff, he admitted that, often enough, it was the other way around, and besides, they were the best friends he ever had, and sometimes you have to do things for your friends.

He waited until I was eighteen to talk about the night they died. I wanted to hear him tell it, so I didn’t let him know that I’d looked it up ‘way before that. It turned out he hadn’t been with them when it happened, thank God, but he was at the hospital with Uncle Harold when the bodies were brought in. It broke my heart to see his eyes well up with tears, even after all those years.

The Dobeys visited often in those days, and when they did, it never failed: we would all sit around the dining table and talk into the night about what life was like back in the day with Starsky and Hutch. Once in a while, Cal and Rosie would show up, too, and listening to them made me so jealous that they had been there and not me. But I never got tired of it, and, truth be told, I really miss those times.

Of course, we also talked about the Red-and-Whites. Uncle Harold said no one believed it was really them at first, but that the night calls from “Zebra 3” kept coming in, and the collars kept adding up; so the department eventually assigned a special designation just for those calls. Pop said once word got out that two dead cops had been seen in the bar, the rest of the BCPD just started hanging out there, not that he appreciated it at first. Eventually, he just accepted it, and by the time I graduated high school, he was so busy, he wasn’t able to spend much time at home. So to help him out, I started working with him part-time while I got myself a degree in restaurant and bar management, and then the place really took off.

Diane, our head waitress, nudges me back to reality with an order: two vodka martinis and a cuba libre. Those would be for Detectives Standish, Albertson and Horvath, making their usual stop here on their way home: same time, same drinks, five days a week. She rolls her eyes and picks up the beers in front of me for more regulars at table five. She’s been with Pop pretty much since the beginning, except for the time she took off to raise her family. She’s the one who put the reserved sign on the booth and made the rule about having clean beer glasses upside-down on the table every day. And, though she doesn’t say so, I can see in her eyes that she’s got stories about Starsky and Hutch, too. We’ll talk about them some day, when she’s ready, I guess.

As I fill her order, I think about the first time I saw them. At first it looked like the booth was filled with smoke; then suddenly there they were, and Starsky rapped twice on the table with his knuckles and held up his hand with two fingers outstretched. He seemed to be looking right at me, and I could read his lips: “Draw two, bartender!”

Now-a-days, no one pays much attention to them. The older cops might raise a glass toward the booth, but no one gets excited anymore. Somehow it’s become normal to have two ghost cops in the back booth drinking ghost beer. No one’s ever been able to communicate with them, but I still think about Starsky looking at me that night, and I wonder if they see us, or if it’s just a replay of some long ago night at The Pits. But then, wouldn’t he have said, “Draw two, Huggy”? Guess I’ll never know, at least not in this life.

Uncle Harold died a couple of years ago, and Mom and Pop started spending a lot of time with Aunt Edith. She was really frail, and they didn’t like her being alone when Cal and Rosie couldn’t be with her. We spent time with her on Sundays after church and helped out taking her on her errands and such. That went on until she passed, too, just a few weeks ago.

So now Pop comes down to the bar most nights, or when he hears a Red and White on the scanner and he’s close by. He can’t talk to them, but he can see them, and he’s always got a smile on his face when he does. It’s a big smile, but it’s sad.

He put another glass on the table after Uncle Harold’s funeral, thinking maybe it would be “draw three” from then on, but that hasn’t happened yet. Not long ago, he told me to be sure to put a fourth glass on the table when he’s gone, just in case.

Not that he’s going anywhere soon. He’s in great shape, and I pray to God he’s going to be around for a long time to come.

I look over to the booth again and watch him for a minute more, barely even noticing when Diane comes back for Standish, Albertson and Horvath’s order.

Reluctantly, I turn my attention back to work when a uniformed cop bellies up to the bar. “Hey, Ted, what’s shakin’?”

He’s not a regular, but I recognize him, and I smile. “Hey, Jackson, long time, no see.”


End file.
